On West Street, two immense trees stand tall between shacks that might otherwise be called houses, if the sheer scale of nature didn’t overshadow man’s humble work. Their limbs stretch overhead, creating a pitch of blackness that conceals everything beneath. Natural light is forbidden here at night, though it sneaks in through reflections off cars and trash cans. Even then, in that faint glow, one could hardly distinguish between a brick wall and a person had they been standing still.
Maybe it was a portal used for transporting him in the direction of his fifty-thousand-dollar vehicle. Maybe it was the scantily dressed vixens which littered the perpendicular avenue. Or perhaps he was just taking a relaxing stroll through the ghetto after a long day of making others do his work. Whatever the case, Simon Nickley, AKA “Mr. President,” was in the clutches of his now archenemy Omar Evens, AKA “O.”
The short of it consists of O discontinuing his distribution of narcotics to fiends in the neighborhood. It’s not like he owed Mr. President money or stopped short of his consignment agreement. But let’s just say, you don’t just up and walk away from Mr. President.
The goons sent to kill him must have told their boss that they completed the mission when, in fact, they didn’t drive slow enough to see the body drop. Drive-bys are far from fail-proof. As O hit the ground with fresh bullet holes smoking in his body, he caught a glimpse of the license plate: 1PREZ.
“I mean, how stupid could you be?” he said to Mr. President, further sealing his fate.
“What are you doing, O?” Mr. President asked, smirking. “Do you know—”
His smug inquiry was cut short by a punch to the gut. As he doubled over, hands on his knees, O pulled out his only true friend. A sound rang out, as familiar in the slum as sirens or the cries of a child. Smoke curled from the barrel, lingering in the air. O looked down. He didn’t see a human body, just an obstacle that had to be removed.
In the silence that followed, O sensed someone else. The woman was overweight, so she didn’t bother running. She stood, knowing that her life had been well lived. O hadn’t practiced for this situation, so he copied her stillness.
“It was Mr. President,” O called out, feeling the need to explain.
“If you can live with it, I can,” Mrs. Val said.
O hadn’t been to The Rec in years, but he still remembered her voice perfectly. Even through a lisp, it oozed confidence. He also knew it was her because of what she said, something she’s always said. Something that made him feel like a person in a time when adults treated children as less than.
She walked away. He didn’t know if he should go after her, throw her against the wall, threaten to kill her if she told anyone. But why take such dramatic, movie-like actions? There was no way she recognized his post-pubescent voice. And he could hardly see her from this distance in the dark, so obviously she couldn’t see him. What could she tell?
He took one last look at the body of the president before walking off into the night. Could he live with this? That was the first introspective thought he had had in a decade. Mrs. Val had once again made him feel like a person. And maybe this was the reason that O liked Mrs. Val.
***
On Washington Avenue, there is a hut that one would miss if it weren’t for the brilliant Afrocentric artwork on its outer walls that refused to be ignored. Inside, the place is split. One half is well-lit, reserved for standing and mingling, or enjoying a beverage at the bar. On the other side, mood lighting caused people, furniture, and paintings to lose most of their details. Limelights call attention to the stage, where a woman prepared herself to speak.
She couldn’t believe it. After hosting The Spot for over a year, Mrs. Val still got nervous before reading. She took a deep breath. “This one’s called ‘Black Boy’.” (Pause for effect.)
Black Boy with Steel toy
Why do you run the streets so?
So food can meet lips of family
Who would starve if they knew?
Black Boy with Steel toy
Why do you run the streets so?
So lyrics of ghetto war sound more profound
When sung over tracks?
So fear can pass through project mothers
Who had hoped more for their children?
Black Boy with Steel toy
Why do you run the streets so?
So you don’t end up like dad?
Dead
Broke
Never experiencing
More than a project apartment
That sleeps six kids and a drunken uncle?
Black Boy with Steel toy
Do you run to get away?
And are you running
(Pause)
If you’re not going anywhere?
Because of her perfectly placed pauses, the crowd always knew when to clap.
“Okay, everyone, thanks for coming out!” She locked eyes with Rashawn Harris. For a moment, she was disoriented. His pecks bulged underneath his white and blue pinstriped shirt. His soft eyes were humbled under massive brows. His goatee looked drawn on; it was so damn perfect, and his fade was incomparable.
“Whew!” Mrs. Val exclaimed, shaking off the moment. “I caught a glimpse of Shawn and forgot what I was talkin’ about!” The audience chuckled. It’s funny saying something that is perfectly honest under the guise of a joke.
“I’m your host, Mrs Val, and I’ll see you all here next week at The Spot!” She placed the mic in its holder and stepped off stage. Rashawn grabbed her hand. “Thank you, sir. And why didn’t I see you up there tonight?”
“You know I love to listen, but I’m no poet.” He said this in a voice she could listen to forever.
“Poetry is nothing more than personal thoughts. Every word you speak is poetry.”
He smiled, “Maybe I’ll write something one day.”
“Maybe we could work on something together,” she said, her eyes filled with double meanings.
“Maybe,” he said, whispering into her ear before kissing her neck, hugging her, holding her closer and closer, squeezing tighter until he was inside of her and around her. He was her. They were one. Every inch of their being was satisfied. They reflected upon the African Diaspora, spiritual connections, the cosmos, and lifetimes beyond this day and age. Before the hot and dense single point expanded as an explosion, he separated from her, lifting his head off her shoulder to verbalize his excitement, saying, “Good night, Mrs. Val.”
“Um. Good night, Shawn,” she said.
Maybe it was just lust but whatever the case, Mrs. Val liked Rashawn.
***
Downtown, a 26-story building is nestled in with other unimpressive medium-rise structures in the waterfront skyline. Spacious windows reflect the nearby estuary. Inside, a maze of cubicles separates worker from worker. They move individually—typing, printing, walking—and all of these actions are accompanied by sound. Yet their habituation is universal. Nobody responds to the normalcy of the assertive steps of a man walking through.
Rashawn Harris walked past the floor’s front desk, where the beautiful receptionist, Cynthia, sat. She barely looked up. He didn’t understand. He was successful, fit, handsome, and tall. He drove a 2005 Mini Cooper complete with televisions built into the back seats. (He would never get to enjoy reruns of The Cosby Show from his car, but he had money to waste.) He only wore Sean John Suits that were good enough for Diddy himself. Every lady wanted him; he was sure of it. Every lady, except for Cynthia.
He caught a few smiles from other female co-workers as he made his way to his corner office. This gave him the final boost he needed to mentally say “Fuck it,” and circle back. Cynthia was turned, stretching to retrieve a few pieces of printed paper. Her ass looked like a water balloon slowly falling off the chair.
“Hey, Cynthia,” Rashawn said.
“Hey,” she said softly, her Southern accent dripping warmth into that single word. “I’m printing out the itinerary now.”
“No. That’s not why– Well, that is, but… I wanted to know if you wanted to come out with us tonight.”
“Sure.”
He was taken aback. He wasn’t sure if she understood what he asked.
“Um, okay,” he said, “We can leave together after work.”
“I’ll be here,” she said, focusing back on her computer.
He was surprised when he approached the front desk later that afternoon. She had understood what he was asking, and she was ready to go. No questions asked.
They met with the investors. Everything went smoothly. Rashawn and his co-worker Kev took the lead, showing the Japanese businessmen what their little slice of Virginia had to offer. Once the meeting was over, everyone went their separate ways, and Rashawn started driving Cynthia home.
“Unless…” he said, giving her a sideways grin, “you wanna keep the party going?”
She looked at him, her face calm. “Sure.”
Again, it was that simple. Rashawn was so used to women throwing themselves at his feet that he forgot that sometimes he just had to ask.
They stepped inside his house, and he introduced the simple woman to his life of luxury: a spacious living room, a bar cart with expensive brandy, and a bedroom with its own balcony, which is where the tour ended.
He always defaulted to autopilot at this point. Once a woman was in the bedroom, there wasn’t much left for his brain to do. He could let his primitive nature take over.
Cynthia undressed as Rashawn stripped to his boxers. He put on some music, dimmed the lights, and retrieved the oils. He wondered if she was ready. He was sure she had never encountered an operator as smooth as him.
He massaged her back, arms, legs, and butt before telling her to flip over. Then gave her a hand massage, moved to her stomach, then legs, gave her a foot massage, then up to the thighs, then inner thighs, then inner inner thighs.
After a more intimate massage, Rashawn lowered his head to give it to Cynthia. She stopped him and pulled his face to her. His seduction technique was so on point that she couldn’t bear another second without being connected to him.
Grabbing his manhood, she opened her legs and let him in. He closed his eyes, and they combined as one.
At this point, he didn’t have to put in too much work for the desired results. If Cynthia hadn’t climaxed multiple times already, surely she was close. Still, he put it on her, and the experience was otherworldly. He had lived this night a hundred times with a hundred different women, but this part was different. He felt something.
Once finished, Rashawn collapsed onto Cynthia’s chest, clenching his teeth as intermittent spasms charged his core. He wondered why this experience felt so extraordinarily different. There was only one variable. And she was the reason he had fallen in love.
***
As the sun set, the shadows of a cluster of stubby buildings stretched eastward, covering everything in their path. Most of the structures were dark, waiting for the next day’s rush of lawyers, accountants, and other businesspeople to bring the city to life at sunrise. But one building’s lights illuminated an entire floor like a glowing eye looking over a few stragglers, bums, and other questionable individuals beginning their shady “workdays” in the ghost town below.
His features couldn’t be made out from three stories up, but Cynthia loved the look. His hair was cornrowed back, probably by one of his many bitches. His silver chains struggled to hold a diamond-studded cross that sparkled on his white tall tee. His wheat-colored Tims were brand new and probably purchased earlier today. And she was sure his baggy jeans concealed drug money and a 10-inch… Desert Eagle.
He posed for Cynthia without even knowing it, like he did every evening at 7:55 pm, waiting for the #20 to carry him back to his destination. She imagined what he did downtown. She wondered where he went every night. And every night, she conjured up a different story. He was more exciting than any of the guys she worked with, and she didn’t even know him.
“You ready?” One of the guys she worked with asked. She noticed the excitement in his eyes. Dude would probably bust right now if he knew he was going to actually hit. Cynthia hadn’t been serviced properly in three months. Hopefully, tomorrow, she could draw a 0 on her mental “Days Since Orgasm” sign.
Throughout the night, his attention was laser-focused on Cynthia, making her increasingly uncomfortable. He was trying way too hard. Like a dog after performing a trick, staring at its owner’s hand for a treat, he was painfully obvious.
Men believe everything has to be a challenge. Because of this, they will start wars, build complex cities, spend years gaining education, and in the end, they will make a simple equation like 1 + 1 = 2 into the square root of four divided by two plus zero minus negative one, which equals two all the same.
At the end of the unnecessary tour, she was rewarded with a dry fingering. Swallowing his pride, he went down for dessert. Cynthia stopped him, pulling his head to her face and grabbing his little head. She wrapped her entire hand around his 5-inch magic stick. He wouldn’t hit it twice.
He pushed in and out with the delicacy of someone carrying a full bowl of soup back to the couch. She was gaining nothing from this. Maybe if she used her imagination, she could pretend that he was a different he—that boy at the bus stop. Maybe she could close her eyes and trick her mind into believing that he was the one she was with. But when he started to spasm, she knew it was over. She had gambled and lost.
Disappointment filled her heart, though she tried to ignore it. He collapsed as if he had actually done something worthwhile. She mocked him by laying his head to her chest like she was the nigga and he was the bitch.
The next day, at 7:54 pm, the cops bum-rushed the bus stop. Cynthia looked out the office building window in excitement as they slammed her thug man into the wall of her building. She licked her lips as they cuffed her menace. She felt a tingle as they threw him in the back of the cop car. He stayed calm the entire time, receiving everything that he probably deserved. For this, he was admirable. She closed her eyes and tightened up as she pictured the young man walking through penitentiary hallways with a pimp stroll and a ghetto lean, afraid of nothing. An overwhelming, involuntary feeling caused her to tense up. She tried to relax, but her legs were shaking.
He had never met her, but O had brought Cynthia to climax.
If you enjoyed UNPERFECT WORLD, maybe you should read THE WAGES OF SIN.
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